It was a little restless these last hours in the blogosphere (and elsewhere, worry) on the article published in Le Figaro that identifies (1 individual) the last book Eric Chevillard ( Dihnneau Eghheurre ). Article nasty, ten pups, but at least has the merit (ouch) not to fear (ouch) to tackle a writer (moo) respected. But hey, we're not here to award the laurels (or sage?) Crrrrrritique the audacity of the press, rather dip what happens (what the fuck Is Happening? ). Because it is fine to go down sharply - although not bow and little muscles in the forearm, chtoïïïïïnggg - an author who is one of the few to build a "work" (well, it a term a little technical, but if you understand the words "body", "change", "rhizome " you should be fine by itself), must still "think" a bit (and by that I do not mean that he thinks the flaw tad, it would be too complicated). This is not the condescending tone (no spoonerism, eh) of the article offends me, or what it contains. Because he set (if it contains anything)? Chevillard that always writes the same book. Either. Fortunately Proust is not published in serial form. Do not return that is false, since Chevillard does not write the same book, but changes more often we do believe, target, object, speed etc.. No, what bothers me is the title, so intelligent , section, and apparently was not enough, if at all, commented.
Car "Demolli Chevillard," of course, is clever. In addition it returns perhaps critical forces, to "Forget Foucault" (again, laugh), it refers of course to the title of the book Chevillard. But ooh my, attention. It is "Demolli" and not "demolish". Pun. Finally, a word, there is only one. What does it mean "Demolli? Make it harder? softer? Well, we'll say harder. I would say to Eric, I will tell him to harden, I'm sure it will amuse him in three paragraphs. Rugged, Eric, and too bad if it hurts. No, I will not tell her that. I do not see an email to begin by Chevillard Erci "Rugged ..." I prefer to speak with him and weevil-sword cane. Moving on. The hard, soft, though I have read Levisse & Strauss, it does me a key, as said another.
But what does the author of this article? Marrow (no salt, no bread, no bones, no spine or quadruped) is there yet, simple, nickel, chromium, tin, rétamée, effective:
"We got the message": in other words: move along! There's nothing to say. Modiano writes the same book? Move along! Guyotat jabbers in loop? Move along! Well, Beckett and Ionesco knew how to renew, I suppose, and I think we can give the author of the article in Le Figaro any novel of Beckett, he will tell you if it fissa Molloy's or Murphy. Blindfolded. Failing anything else, um.
In fact, what this paper, strikingly reminiscent of the texture of a cream cheese topping huge Kiri by its depth and flavor, is trying to tell us is that literature that provides message is good, it's perfect, you want the real flush the mouth, office, family, is not no doubt about it, but instead, the message does not contain the sole message that there is no message that literature is not a Salesman Still, it's funny but pointless. Worse, funny and vain. Balzac, you raving, yo!
Well, all this is not very serious just fun as a candy stuck to the sole of a man dressed in gray mouse who advances without kiri on a red carpet color blood turnip (I find this picture funny and vain). But anyway, this impulse that pushes to qualify the book by Eric Chevillard of "free experience" is pretty pathetic. Looks like a pumpkin dressed as oxymoron.
No, experience is not free, sir. I repeat not, the experience is not in gratuite.Et rédactionnant the sacroiliac joint, its author has managed this feat quite unlikely to become the first Dinosauregger which one will care very little extinction.
Well, we can talk about something else now? Because I have lots of funny and useless books waiting for me on my board bedside: Lives potential , Camille de Toledo, Splash , Dirk van Bastelaere, Field, Judith Elbaz, The Debacle , Caesar Fauxbras, Behind my desk, Werner Kofler, E scales to Lycanthropolis , Petrus Borel, Everyone, Antoine Boute - you name it.
Well, the new young lions of literary criticism written printed broadcast pounded not worry - blogs wank stockings, no doubt, but their battle is elsewhere: in the ground, there Under which roars (and there is enough fun? vain enough? zou: Go nutmeg ...)
I think I'll reread Choir. Or better Choir? Choir yet? Difference and Repetition or ?
Car "Demolli Chevillard," of course, is clever. In addition it returns perhaps critical forces, to "Forget Foucault" (again, laugh), it refers of course to the title of the book Chevillard. But ooh my, attention. It is "Demolli" and not "demolish". Pun. Finally, a word, there is only one. What does it mean "Demolli? Make it harder? softer? Well, we'll say harder. I would say to Eric, I will tell him to harden, I'm sure it will amuse him in three paragraphs. Rugged, Eric, and too bad if it hurts. No, I will not tell her that. I do not see an email to begin by Chevillard Erci "Rugged ..." I prefer to speak with him and weevil-sword cane. Moving on. The hard, soft, though I have read Levisse & Strauss, it does me a key, as said another.
But what does the author of this article? Marrow (no salt, no bread, no bones, no spine or quadruped) is there yet, simple, nickel, chromium, tin, rétamée, effective:
These exercises in style perfectly silly and vain have no other purpose than to demonstrate that literature is an exercise in vain and funny language. You want to tell it's going Chevillard, that's it for twenty-five years he made the same demonstration of virtuosity spinning its wheels, we got the message .
In fact, what this paper, strikingly reminiscent of the texture of a cream cheese topping huge Kiri by its depth and flavor, is trying to tell us is that literature that provides message is good, it's perfect, you want the real flush the mouth, office, family, is not no doubt about it, but instead, the message does not contain the sole message that there is no message that literature is not a Salesman Still, it's funny but pointless. Worse, funny and vain. Balzac, you raving, yo!
Well, all this is not very serious just fun as a candy stuck to the sole of a man dressed in gray mouse who advances without kiri on a red carpet color blood turnip (I find this picture funny and vain). But anyway, this impulse that pushes to qualify the book by Eric Chevillard of "free experience" is pretty pathetic. Looks like a pumpkin dressed as oxymoron.
No, experience is not free, sir. I repeat not, the experience is not in gratuite.Et rédactionnant the sacroiliac joint, its author has managed this feat quite unlikely to become the first Dinosauregger which one will care very little extinction.
Well, we can talk about something else now? Because I have lots of funny and useless books waiting for me on my board bedside: Lives potential , Camille de Toledo, Splash , Dirk van Bastelaere, Field, Judith Elbaz, The Debacle , Caesar Fauxbras, Behind my desk, Werner Kofler, E scales to Lycanthropolis , Petrus Borel, Everyone, Antoine Boute - you name it.
Well, the new young lions of literary criticism written printed broadcast pounded not worry - blogs wank stockings, no doubt, but their battle is elsewhere: in the ground, there Under which roars (and there is enough fun? vain enough? zou: Go nutmeg ...)
I think I'll reread Choir. Or better Choir? Choir yet? Difference and Repetition or ?
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